Two moving vans pulled up
and strangers paraded into the house,
began dismantling each room.
Dad skulked,
drank cold coffee
from my red striped mug.
Mom directed the movers like a traffic cop,
her cigarette a baton that signaled
go, wait
stop.
Sofas, tables, beds and boxes
red tagged for Dad
green for Mom and me
disappeared down the stairs,
all swallowed up
by the black caverns
of the trucks.
Lucy and me sat in the hot sun
wove buttercup chains and watched
the flow from the house
trickle to
nothing.
I wanted Mom to yell
stop
but she signaled go
and the trucks drove away.
Lucy went home.
I wandered through rooms
I didn't know anymore.
Illustration by Krista Mason
Read by Karen Hakkarainen
